


Splinter

by goldensprite



Category: Bleach
Genre: M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldensprite/pseuds/goldensprite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the request: Ggio/Ilforte – hair pulling, biting and bondage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splinter

‘Aren’t you pathetic?’

Il Forte turned, although he already knew who had spoken. Ggio Vega. His arms were folded and his back straight, and he looked down at Il Forte from where he stood on the stairwell.

Il Forte had been aware of the man’s reiatsu nearby as he had been walking, but hadn’t expected him to make contact in any way. He wasn’t blind: he had seen Ggio watching him in the past, felt his eyes lingering on his hair and his throat and his hips, but he’d known Ggio wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t even speak to him so long as Grimmjow was near.

But Grimmjow wasn’t near now. He was injured. Not incapacitated; he was too strong for that. But he was hurt, and Il Forte wanted to be by his side.

‘Is there something you need, Ggio Vega? I need to get to Grimmjow.’

Ggio’s lip curled. ‘He’s already in the medical bay, what can _you_ do for him? Scurrying around like a rat…’ 

He gestured to the bundle in Il Forte’s hands and Il Forte drew it closer to himself. He was carrying a set of fresh clothes for Grimmjow, and something secret, something he was hoping Grimmjow would like.

‘Are you hoping he’ll be so pleased with you he’ll let you suck his dick? Pathetic. Where’s your pride?’

Il Forte’s eyes narrowed. ‘Pride?’ he echoed. He knew he shouldn’t let Ggio get to him, but he was already antsy, and the arrogant smirk on the dark-haired man’s face was getting under his skin.

‘You really don’t know what it is, do you? Ggio sneered. ‘I choose to follow Lord Barragan Luisenbarn because he is powerful. And you? Fraccion to _Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez_? He’s worthless! He can run his mouth all he likes, but he doesn’t have the strength to back it up. You should have abandoned him when you got to Las Noches, chosen someone more powerful. You’re pathetic.’

The vitriol radiated off him; Il Forte was surprised to realise that it just made him feel _exhausted_ , rather than upset. ‘So why are you bothering with me?’

He felt Ggio coming, but he couldn’t move away, couldn’t defend. If he blocked or drew his sword he would drop the package in his hands, and he could not afford to do that. He’d been expecting Ggio to punch him, but instead the dark-haired man grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him to his knees. Il Forte fell hard, cradling the bundle in his arms to keep it from falling to the ground, to the dirt. Ggio saw this and tightened his hold, making Il Forte suck in air between his teeth, pain splintering along his scalp.

‘Because you’re repulsive. He’ll never give you what you want, he’ll never even look at you twice, and you never give up. You disgust me.’

Il Forte put one hand over Ggio’s, trying to loosen the fingers in his hair. His head was beginning to throb. 

‘So let me get out of your sight,’ he said, hoping his voice came out even and reasonable, hoping he could conceal the anger choking at his throat. It would take him longer to get to Grimmjow now; he would have to get cleaned up first, otherwise Grimmjow would want to know what had happened to him, and Il Forte did not want to see Grimmjow clashing with Luisenbarn.

‘Let you go?’ 

The punch finally came: Ggio’s hold on his hair tightened, keeping him in place while his fist smashed into Il Forte’s jaw. He gritted his teeth against the pain, refusing to cry out. Ggio dragged him up, bringing their faces close.

‘You think you can tell me what to do?’

Ggio shoved him, hard; he fell onto his back, head cracking against the tiles, and slid a little way across the floor. He winced, still refusing to cry out, refusing to acknowledge just how easy it was to hurt him, overpower him, refusing to acknowledge how weak he was. He raised himself onto his elbow slightly and braced himself for the pain he knew was coming, clenching his free hand into a fist. If he saw an opening he would take it. He knew Ggio was stronger than he was, but he was going to fight back. Maybe it would just take a few rounds of sparring for Ggio to lose interest, and then Il Forte could go back to Grimmjow.

But Ggio didn’t swing at him again. Instead, he knelt over him and straddled his hips. Il Forte tried to buck away and Ggio grabbed his shoulders, slamming him down. 

‘Stay where you are!’ he spat.

Il Forte ignored him and struggled harder, until Ggio pressed his hips down and Il Forte was suddenly paralysed, frozen in panic: Ggio was hard. He was grinding his erection slowly, most likely unconsciously, against Il Forte’s pelvis.

‘Ggio-’ he began, but Ggio bared his teeth at him and leaned down.

He sank his teeth into the edge of Il Forte’s hollow hole.

A scream welled up inside Il Forte’s throat and he stifled it down, biting down on his lower lip as hard as he could. He didn’t want to let Ggio know just much it was hurting him. But Ggio bit him again, harder, and a strangled noise forced through his clenched lips, weak and desperate to his own ears. Ggio’s teeth pushed harder, moved lower and deeper, scraping the inside of his hollow hole, and he felt blood drip downward, pooling hot under his back. It hurt; nobody had touched like that before, and the pain was raw and intense. He lifted his hand and his fingers found Ggio’s braid; he grabbed hold and pulled, trying to force the man to release him, and Ggio hissed, his teeth easing off slightly. Il Forte yanked harder and Ggio’s head snapped backward all the way, his canines tearing Il Forte’s skin in sharp lines where they had been buried. The throbbing pain in his chest pushed back the doubt, the sheer _disbelief_ Il Forte had been feeling, and the fury he knew he ought to be feeling rushed through his veins. He brought his knee up and kicked Ggio off him as hard as he could. His fingers slipped down Ggio’s braid and caught in the elastic holding it closed; it snapped off, stinging him as he _flung_ Ggio as far away as he could.

Ggio landed on his knees and looked up at him, blood leaking from his mouth.

‘You want _him_ to do this to you, don’t you?’ he growled. ‘You want him to force you to the ground and make you whimper. You’re _pathetic_.’

Il Forte could only half-see him through his watery eyes, so he couldn’t see the expression on his face. But his voice… His voice was lower and rougher… he almost sounded like Grimmjow. He blinked to clear his vision, standing shakily. 

Ggio laughed.

‘Not so fast,’ he said, drawing something from his pocket.

Il Forte felt his hand creep toward his sword. He was still shaking. He was furious; he wanted to roar, he wanted to rip Ggio to shreds and smear his blood all over the walls of Las Noches. He wanted to get away.

Ggio brought out a long strip of something black; it was sleek and shiny, edged in silver. Something about it made Il Forte’s hackles rise. He stepped back and Ggio laughed delightedly.

He threw the black strip at Il Forte.

Stunned, Il Forte dodged, moving out of the way, so it only glanced off his left arm. 

Except it didn’t fall; it clung to him, looping itself around his forearm and tightening, two long loose ends hanging downward, one longer than the other.

He gasped, digging his nails underneath it, trying to yank it off. He didn’t know what it was, but the feeling of it, even through his clothes, made him feel sick.

The strip extended itself: the shorter end slipped around his left thigh while the longer end crawled up his right hand, circling itself around his forearm and then travelling downward, wrapping around his right thigh. In one motion the strip contracted around him; snapping his elbows together hard, and tightening itself so his elbows banged into his knees, toppling him over facefirst, his mask slamming into the floor, making him see stars.

‘Nifty, isn’t it? Your brother made it for me… Especially for you, because he knows your measurements so well.’

Il Forte growled, turning his face to keep Ggio in sight, his cheek scraping against the ground. He tried to crawl away but the strip tightened painfully, keeping him still.

‘Can’t move, can you?’

Ggio came up behind him and Il Forte felt something sharp against his back; Ggio was dragging his sword against his shirt, slashing it open. Ggio murmured something and Il Forte struggled against the bindings; being forced to his hands and knees, his skin half-bare, he felt desperate. If the thing binding his elbows and knees was sentient (the thought making him shudder), maybe he could obliterate it somehow by raising his reiatsu. He tried to calm himself, tried to focus.

But then Ggio slipped something cold and metallic around his neck, and his reiatsu dissipated so quickly he sagged against the floor.

‘I really owe Szayel for this,’ Ggio said quietly. His voice was somewhat muffled, like he was speaking through clenched teeth.

He drew his sword down the waistband of Il Forte’s hakama, the cold blade making him gasp, and ripped the fabric off him. He tore off the extra fabric with his hands until Il Forte was left in nothing but his sleeves from wrist to elbow, and the material of his hakama below his knees. Goosebumps formed on his skin; from the cold air on his bare skin and the sound of swishing, falling fabric from behind him, from the quickening he heard in Ggio’s breathing. Struggling to work his muscles, he moved his head to rest on his forearms instead of the hard ground, feeling the throb in his head ease somewhat. He realised his breath wasn’t coming too easily anymore. It was shuddered and harsh now, catching in his throat; he wondered idly if he could suffocate himself if he just held his breath long enough.

Behind him he heard a slick, wet noise and his shaky breathing turned to a silent sob.

Ggio put his hand on the small of Il Forte’s back and pushed him forward. He moved Il Forte’s knees apart slightly and one of his fingers, wet and cold and slippery, pushed inside him. Il Forte bit his lip, tears streaming down his cheeks. He would _not_ cry out. 

Behind him, Ggio hissed. ‘Fuck… Don’t tell me you’ve never done this before?’

Il Forte stayed silent. Grimmjow’s clothes were still clutched in his right hand; he stared at them until his vision blurred.

‘You do have _some_ use, it seems. Fuck…’ He slipped his finger in and out of Il Forte. ‘You’re going to feel _good_ on my dick.’

Il Forte felt a momentary flush of relief; if that were the case, perhaps the whole encounter would not last long. 

When he realised just what he was thinking, the relief disappeared.

‘That’s enough for my liking…’

Il Forte tried to turn his head, but Ggio gripped one of his hips and pushed so he slumped forward hard. He heard more slick noises behind him, and then something warm and wet pushed against him.

It made him want to weep. 

He realised it then; once Ggio was inside him he would probably lower his guard. If he could muster enough strength, maybe he could use that to overpower him. The restraint binding him appeared to be looser around his thighs; Ggio wouldn’t have been able to spread his knees apart otherwise. He might be able to stand. Maybe he could get away from this only slightly soiled. Maybe he would be alright. 

Ggio stroked his cock against Il Forte’s entrance and Il Forte winced. _One breath at a time_ , he told himself. _Just concentrate on taking one breath, then one more, then one more… Just breathe, slow and steady. You know what your muscles are capable of. Feel your strength return._

And he did. A slow seeping of strength gathering in his muscles, in his thighs and his arms and his back.

The head of Ggio’s cock pushed inside him, and he bit down hard on his forearm, choking back a scream. Even though he had braced himself, prepared himself, told himself that Ggio only _thought_ he was overpowering him, that he would lock his heart away and not let Ggio _truly_ damage him, it still hurt. He hurt.

Ggio let out a long, deep moan, pushing further inside.

_Now._

Il Forte pushed himself up on his elbows, flexing his biceps, preparing to swing his entire bodyweight, to crash against Ggio and fling him off…

And the collar around his neck _burned_ like ice crystals digging into his skin, and all his strength left his body, and he fell like a rag doll. The black strips around his forearms and thighs pulled tighter, cutting into his skin.

‘I… asked Szayel to put that in…’ Ggio panted. He hadn’t slowed his hips the entire time. ‘Let you think… you… get free… _fuck_ … make you… ah, fuck…’

Il Forte couldn’t cry, couldn’t even scream. All he could do was shake his head weakly, over and over.

_No… no no no no no no…_

‘Fuck…’

Ggio was inside him to the hilt; Il Forte could feel his body pressed sickeningly close, hot and sticky. Ggio was mumbling, incoherent words against Il Forte’s hair.

_Just breathe… one breath… and another… and another… This will be over…_

‘You’re so _fucking_ tight…’

Il Forte’s eyes snapped open. Ggio’s voice was rougher, hoarse with lust. _He almost sounded like…_

‘Fuck, Il Forte…’

_Grimmjow…_

Il Forte’s breath hitched at the thought. Behind him, Ggio began to thrust faster; his moans became wilder and more feral, his nails digging into Il Forte’s hips. Il Forte could hear his name mumbled amidst incoherent sounds and curse words. Ggio hilted inside him and rolled his hips, cursing loudly, and pushed Il Forte forward again. He leaned against him, still thrusting fast and brutal, and sank his teeth into the rim of Il Forte’s hollow hole.

Il Forte cried out. In his mind it was Grimmjow holding his face against the floor, Grimmjow’s teeth inside him, Grimmjow’s cock inside him. He began to buck his hips, his cock growing hard. Ggio thrust into him even harder and his body sagged forward; his cheek touched something cool and soft.

Grimmjow’s clothes.

He buried his face in them, breathing in Grimmjow’s scent. He moaned, feeling precome leaking down his cock, his hips thrashing wildly.

It was Grimmjow who had bound him. It was Grimmjow fucking him. It was Grimmjow moaning his name and cursing, telling him how good it felt inside him.

The teeth against his hollow hole pushed deeper and deeper; he felt blood trickle along the insides, hot and slick and sliding slow against the bare nerve endings and down his chest, making him whimper and arch against the body moving over him. The curses from behind him grew louder and the thrusts grew harder and faster, and faster still, erratic and frantic, forcing his breath from him in short gasps. A hand came up to his hair, threading the long strands around its fingers and yanking, pulling Il Forte’s back into a sharper arch, pulling the flesh of his hollow hole harder against the teeth scraping inside. A tongue, long and wet, slipped inside, gliding against blood and rubbed-raw, sensitive skin, drawing a deep moan from both men. Il Forte’s whole body shuddered, his cock twitching and pulsing, aching to be touched, to be stroked by clawed, rough hands, to be coaxed into release.

Il Forte was panting, almost sobbing from the feeling of being bound and filled and held and _possessed._

The cock inside him began to swell; the grip on his hair tightened and twisted and it was so glorious that Grimmjow wanted him with such passion, that Grimmjow took him like this because he _was_ Grimmjow’s, everything he was and everything he had belonged to Grimmjow. The hand fisted in his hair jerked him backward, bending him, and the body moving inside him leaned forward, over Il Forte’s shoulder, and then Il Forte was crying out, because there were teeth digging into the front of his hollow hole and he opened his eyes because he wanted to see Grimmjow’s face when he came inside him…

… and the shoulder his head was pushed against was slim, and the hair hanging loose against his skin was black, and the cheek was bare of bone teeth, and his orgasm retreated, everything retreated but the slick heat filling his body, the grunting and slapping of skin against skin filling the room, the horror tightening around his throat.

_Breathe… just breathe…_

But even breathing was unbearable, because the room was filled with the smell of sweat and arousal (and Il Forte was ashamed to recognise his own scent on the air) and Ggio Vega, musky and thick and everywhere.

Ggio pulled out of Il Forte and released him, letting his body crumple to the ground. He left Il Forte like that while he dressed. Il Forte breathed through his mouth so he wouldn’t have to smell the air in that room, wanting Ggio to just _go somewhere else_ and leave him alone with his shame and pain.

There was blood on Grimmjow’s clothes. Il Forte reached out to touch them, wanting to cry, wanting to apologise. His fingers barely moved, falling short; his hands were numb from the restraints, from bearing his weight.

Ggio stepped before him and touched the black strip binding him; it slackened and released him. Il Forte gasped with relief, the feeling in his arms and legs normalising somewhat. The collar around his neck still stung him, he would tear it off himself as soon as his hands would work again.

‘You stink of me. He definitely won’t want you _now_.’ 

There was a smirk in that voice, and Il Forte looked up, unable to believe what he was hearing.

Ggio sneered, and kicked Grimmjow’s bloodied clothing.

His foot connected with something hard and he frowned, nudging at it with his foot. The snowglobe Il Forte had hidden inside the pocket rolled out, the sound of its smooth surface rolling against the hard tile too loud in Il Forte’s ears.

Grimmjow liked things that moved; it was part of his feline nature, Il Forte supposed. He had brought Grimmjow a snowglobe, filled with dark liquid and glitter that left sparkling trails when you moved it, like stars. Like a world, small enough to hold in your hands.

Ggio shrieked with laughter, and brought his foot down hard, smashing it.

He left glitter and splinters of glass behind in his footsteps as he left.

Il Forte hurt.


End file.
